Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3)

by Andy Peloquin

Again, the ocean’s frigid chill expelled the numbness from Aravon’s mind. His vision coalesced, the blurring details sharpening into crystal clarity. Two huge legs planted on either side of him, a massive Eirdkilr clad in gleaming chain mail. A snarling, blue-stained face more bear than man, half twisted by the scar tissue marring the empty right eye socket. Growling fury as he raised his iron-studded club high over his head.

  Aravon had a heartbeat to act. He snapped his leg upward, driving his heavy boot between the fork of Asger Einnauga’s legs. The war club faltered in its descent and splashed into the sand an inch away from Aravon’s head as the massive Eirdkilr sagged, his legs weak. A howl of agony exploded from his lips.

  Asger Einnauga’s huge bulk collapsed atop Aravon, the helmeted head striking Aravon’s face. Grunting, groaning with pain, the massive Eirdkilr scrabbled at Aravon’s armor, digging fingers into his collar, and grasping for his throat. A hand large and strong enough to crush skulls locked around his neck. That snarling, hate-filled face loomed over Aravon. Though pain darkened the Eirdkilr’s one good eye, he bared his teeth in a furious growl and tightened his grip.

  Aravon struggled to break free, in vain. Tried to strike back but found his spear and right hand trapped beneath the Eirdkilr’s massive bulk. The hilt of his sword too far out of reach. No hope of drawing the dagger on his belt. He pounded at the Eirdkilr’s hand, but he might as well have pounded against the earth itself. Unyielding fingers strong as iron bands squeezed tighter. Locked on Aravon’s throat, cutting off his air.

  Lungs screaming, panic flooding him, Aravon punched at Asger Einnauga’s face. Striking at his one good eye, clawing at his face, trying something, anything to throw the Eirdkilr off. Even for a heartbeat, just long enough to draw a single breath. But the blows, struck in desperation, landed on the side of the Eirdkilr’s massive face, his helmet. The smile on the barbarian’s face only widened as he tightened the grip. Pushed, shoving Aravon’s head down, down beneath the surface and into the soft sand. Icy water surged up around the side of Aravon’s face, seeping through his mask, rising to cover his eyes, his nose, and slide into his open mouth. Strangling, suffocating, and drowning.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Darkness pressed in around the edges of Aravon’s vision. He could feel his body, drained from endless battle, threatening to give out. The lack of air sapped the strength from his muscles, weakened his strikes. He kicked and struggled, but the Eirdkilr was too heavy, too strong to throw off.

  Panic turned to terror in Aravon’s mind. That horrible, one-eyed face with its blue war paint and burning hatred filled his vision. Asger Einnauga’s growling, snarling features would be the last thing he’d ever see. Not Rolyn, with his long chestnut hair thick with curls inherited from his mother. Not Adilon, his eyes bright with curiosity and an eagerness to see every marvel the world around him had to offer. Not Mylena, her heart-shaped face beautiful even in mourning. Not Duke Dyrund, Prince Toran, Colborn, Rangvaldr, or any of his Grim Reavers. No one who mattered to him—instead, this furious, bloodthirsty savage howling for his blood.

  No! The word echoed through his oxygen-deprived, pain-numbed mind. Not like this!

  Every soldier prepared to die, accepted the inevitability of death. They faced it daily, marched toward it rather than flee like any “rational” man or woman would. That was the price they paid to protect those they loved.

  But if Aravon died here, he would fail his family. He’d fail his Prince, his city, and his people. Death, he could accept, but death and failure, never.

  His fingers were growing numb, a tingling seeping through his limbs. Yet he forced himself not to give in to the despair, the terror at his impending death, the exhaustion. Though his lungs shrieked for air and the world darkened around him, he refused to stop fighting. He wouldn’t stop until the very end. Until he had no more strength, until the last thread of life slipped from his body.

  He was trapped, crushed beneath a towering Eirdkilr, too weak to push him off. Asger Einnauga’s fingers locked around his throat, an iron grip he couldn’t break even if he tried. Aravon gave up the attempt, instead he resorted to the last, desperate hope. He scrabbled along the giant’s belt, reaching for his dagger. His fingers closed around steel—not the leather-wrapped hilt of his own blade, but what felt like crude cloth bindings.

  With his final burst of strength, Aravon tore the dagger free of the Eirdkilr’s belt and lashed out blindly at the face leering above him. A howl of pain seeped through the ringing in his ears, the pounding of his pulse. Blood showered his face, stinging his eyes. Again, Aravon lashed out, thrusting with the blade. He felt it part flesh and strike bone, and he twisted and tore it free, struck again.

  The hands around his throat loosened a fraction, just enough for him to suck in a single shuddering gasp. That bit of air pushed back the darkness, flooded Aravon with strength. Another wild strike, and again the dagger bit into flesh. Soft, yielding flesh, accompanied by a gush of warm wetness.

  Asger Einnauga’s screams grew louder in Aravon’s ears. The grip on his neck yielded more, and Aravon sucked in another breath. Filling his lungs, restoring his strength. Again and again he slashed, hacked, and stabbed with the crude dagger. Frantic, frenzied attacks with no intent other than to break the Eirdkilr’s hold on him.

  The world swam into focus, and Aravon’s eyes locked on that ursine, blue-painted face above him. Crimson gushed from long, vicious gashes in Asger Einnauga’s right cheek, along his jaw, beneath the rim of his helmet, and even the tip of his nose. More spurts from the ragged tear in the side of his neck. The Eirdkilr’s right hand abandoned its grip on Aravon’s throat and pressed against the wound, desperate to stop the flow of blood. Fear mingled with the Eirdkilr’s all-consuming hatred, and the savage glee in Asger Einnauga’s one good eye gave way to panic.

  With a snarl, Aravon struck out again. No blind strike, but a single, determined thrust aimed at the barbarian’s face. Twelve inches of hammered steel punched through Asger Einnauga’s lone eye. Aravon pushed harder, driving the tip of the blade through the eye and into the brain until it struck bone. Blood spilled from the ruined eye socket, and Asger Einnauga collapsed atop Aravon, dead before he fell.

  Aravon gasped, drawing in a shuddering breath, two, three. He released the dagger and tore the Eirdkilr’s fingers from around his throat. Struggled to roll the massive body from atop him. Asger Einnauga splashed into the water and lay face-down. Blood marred the white foam around him, long threads of crimson pulled out to sea as the waves retreated and crashed once more.

  Slowly, Aravon rose to his feet. The pounding of his pulse faded, and the sounds of battle returned with full force. Screaming, crying, howling, clashing steel and wood. The grunts of men locked in desperate combat and the song of death raising its terrible voice into the night.

  Yet the tune had changed. Confusion seethed within Aravon. He blinked, trying to bring his vision back into focus. As the fog receded from his mind and the world grew clearer, he understood why.

  The Legion had arrived.

  Not a full Legion company, but fifteen Legionnaires clad in soot-covered, bloodstained armor and helms. Their huge rectangular shields had joined the ranks of the Ebonguards, their short swords stabbing and hacking down the Eirdkilrs.

  Aravon’s heart leapt as he caught sight of familiar figures among their ranks. The hulking Endyn, towering over the slim form of his brother, Duvain. Corporal Rold snarling curses and barking orders to his men. Captain Lingram, fighting beside Commander Torban, calling encouragement to the Prince’s guards. The ranks of Ebonguards seemed to have swelled, too. Somehow, impossibly, Captain Lingram had come…and brought reinforcements.

  The Eirdkilrs’ lines had grown thin, ragged, the gaps wider as more and more of the towering barbarians fell. Ebonguards and Legionnaires drove forward, slamming their shields into the weakened Eirdkilr shield wall, pushing the enemy outward, back against the two cliff walls. Crossbowmen perched on the cliff loosed bolts into the
enemy, with Noll and Skathi lending their longbows and the few arrows that remained. Belthar, Rangvaldr, and Colborn had joined the ranks of the Ebonguards pushing east, while Zaharis stood among the Legionnaires fighting the enemy clustered against the western cliff.

  Aravon nearly fell to his knees and wept in relief, but he knew that if he did, he’d never stand again. Every muscle felt leaden, and it was all he could do to remain upright. Leaning on his spear, struggling to breathe, watching as the Ebonguards and Legionnaires finished off the last of the Eirdkilrs.

  The barbarians went down fighting. Howling, screaming their rage and defiance, they fought to their last breaths. Yet with the newly-arrived Ebonguards and Legionnaires to reinforce the defenders holding the beach, they had no chance. The towering barbarians died to a man.

  Then it was over. The ring of steel and the thump of wood fell silent as the last Eirdkilr war cry died in a wet gurgle. For a heartbeat, the only sound along the beach was the gentle hiss of the waves slithering up the sandy shore, the whisper of the breeze rolling off the sea. The light of the Icespire bathed the pre-dawn morning with a soothing glow.

  The moment passed, and the world once more came alive in a chorus of sound—the sound of suffering and death. The groans, screams, and cries of the wounded and dying. The gasps of men exhausted by battle, struggling to draw breath. Sand crunched under the boots of staggering soldiers. Steel clanked against stone as the Ebonguards slumped against the rocky cliff walls. Shields and weapons clattered to the beach, dropped from exhaustion-numbed hands.

  Aravon staggered forward, his legs and feet numb, his boots heavy with water. His leather armor creaked with every step. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. He was tired, so bloody tired. Yet he couldn’t rest. He had to keep fighting. Keep fighting until his family, the Prince, and the city were saved.

  For a moment, the brilliant glow of relief pushed back his fatigue as he stumbled toward his Grim Reavers. They had all survived. Wounded, battered, bruised, and bleeding—in Belthar’s case, bleeding heavily from a gash in his thigh—but alive.

  Zaharis reached him first. “You’re an idiot, Captain,” the Secret Keeper signed one-handed, his other hand still gripping his gore-covered spiked mace. “That big bastard’s shield charge should have killed you, but somehow you manage to not only survive, but kill Einnauga himself.” He rolled his eyes. “A damned lucky idiot, I tell you!”

  Aravon didn’t have the strength to argue. His desperate attack had come within a heartbeat of failing—hells, had Captain Lingram not arrived when he did, the Eirdkilrs could very well have overrun the Ebonguard and killed him as he wrestled with Asger Einnauga. But the Swordsman had smiled on them. That was the way with every battle. All the preparations and strategies in the world flew out the window when enemies clashed. Sometimes, a suicidal ploy offered the only chance of victory.

  Colborn caught sight of the two of them as they climbed up the beach to where Rangvaldr knelt, bandaging Belthar’s knee. “Captain.” The Lieutenant nodded. “Good to see you in one piece.”

  Aravon gave a tired chuckle. “You doubted?” His words came out hoarse, his throat aching. He’d bear ugly bruises for days to come. “So much for the faith of my soldiers.”

  “It was a close thing,” Colborn said. “For all of us.” For the stoic Lieutenant, that was the closest it would get to an admission that he had seriously doubted the battle’s outcome.

  Beyond Colborn, Rangvaldr pressed his hand to Belthar’s knee, and a soft blue glow emanated from between his fingers. The pain lines in Belthar’s face softened and he breathed easier. When Rangvaldr stood and helped him to his feet, the big man tested his weight on the leg, wincing slightly. The Eyrr magic had its limitations—it would speed the healing process, but the pain would remain for a while longer.

  “Well, look who finally decided to join the party!” Noll’s voice drifted from Aravon’s right. He glanced up and found the scout’s eyes locked on a trio of Legionnaires marching across the beach toward them.

  A smile tugged at Aravon’s lips. Captain Lingram bore a bloody gash across his forehead, Endyn had an arrow embedded in the meat of his huge shoulder, and Corporal Rold’s nose had been broken yet again, but they appeared only marginally worse for the wear.

  Aravon turned toward the Legionnaires. “Took the scenic tour of the Palace, did you?” Speaking felt odd—water had soaked the leather mask, and it now clung to his face, a clammy sensation that set his skin crawling.

  Captain Lingram shrugged. “I needed the exercise. Besides, I didn’t want to spoil your fun.”

  “How generous, Lingram.”

  The Legionnaire’s eyes narrowed a fraction, something Aravon didn’t understand flashing across his face. It disappeared a moment later. “In all truth,” Captain Lingram said with a wry shake of his head, “it took far too long to convince the Ebonguard we were friendly. And, when they heard that the Deepshackle was coming down—”

  “The Deepshackle!” Aravon spun toward the west, his eyes seeking out the tower that controlled the sea chain’s mechanisms.

  “It’s under control.” Captain Lingram held up a hand. “Commander Torban’s already sent a score of Ebonguards to reinforce the tower.”

  Relief flooded Aravon. Yet it died a moment later as worry flashed across Captain Lingram’s face.

  “Captain Seech, the one commanding the forces in the Palace, pulled every available man from the Prince’s protective force.” The Legionnaire’s expression grew grim. “I tried to get to the Prince, but there wasn’t enough time. Not with those five ships sailing in.”

  Aravon’s jaw clenched—he’d sent the Legionnaires into the Palace to secure Prince Toran’s safety and deliver warning of Lord Eidan’s treachery, but Lingram had made the right call coming to defend the beach.

  “Where is he?” Aravon asked.

  Captain Lingram’s jaw muscles clenched. “He’s with the Prince in the Throne Room. And, from what I hear, Eventide is there as well. Reinforcements to support the Palace’s defense, according to Captain Seech.”

  Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. Lord Eidan had his mercenaries positioned around Prince Toran. Now, with the Prince’s loyal Ebonguard pulled away to battle, the traitorous nobleman had his chance to strike.

  The battle had been won, but now Lord Eidan was in the perfect position to murder the Prince. And with him, Aravon’s family.

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  Aravon broke into a mad dash, sprinting up the beach toward the path that led to the Palace.

  “Captain!” Colborn’s call echoed behind him, but Aravon didn’t slow. His pain and exhaustion faded—not gone, simply pushed to the back of his mind—as fear for his family set fire flooding his limbs. By the time he stepped off the sand and onto the marble-tiled walkway, he was running at a full sprint. Heart hammering, eyes locked on the arched doorway on the Palace’s northern entrance. Those double doors stood just fifty yards away, but the distance seemed endless.

  Images of horror flashed before Aravon’s eyes. Lord Eidan, realizing his plan had gone awry, drove a dagger into the Prince’s back. Opened Mylena’s throat and ordered his Eventide mercenaries to execute Rolyn and Adilon. That thought, the mental picture of those corpses lying broken and bloodied on the glistening floors of the Palace, drove him onward. Running, racing, his legs and arms pumping with the effort, boots ringing on the walkway’s marble tiles.

  He burst through the entrance and raced into the Palace. He’d been to Palace Isle only a few times in his life—most recently, accompanying General Traighan to receive accolades from Prince Toran in commemoration of his long, storied service to the Legion of Heroes and the Princelands. Every visit had left him in awe and wonder at the grandeur of the Palace.

  Marble statues of the Prince’s forefathers stood beneath enormous, gold-framed oil paintings depicting the stern faces of those same rulers. Tapestries of brilliant colors woven through with gold and silver thread displayed the history of t
he Princelands—bloody sea battles fought by the mainlanders, storming the islands upon which the Icespire stood, the conquest south, a hundred years of peaceful rule of the Fehlans, the coming of the Eirdkilrs. Four hundred years of the Princelands’ past hanging on walls adorned with red, grey, and white marble shot through with veins of gold.

  But the high, arched ceilings, grand entrances, broad marble staircases, and the myriad of richly-furnished rooms all passed in a blur as Aravon raced through the corridors. Down the northern hall, deep into the heart of the Palace. Straight toward the Royal Ballroom, where Lord Eidan and his hired swords lurked at the Prince’s side.

  The pounding of his boots echoed through the vast halls that now stood empty and dark—lit only by flickering candles, a handful of oil lanterns, and the soft blue glow of the Icespire streaming through the glass domes at the heart of the massive Palace.

  Aravon’s gut clenched as he caught sight of the huge double doors that opened onto the northern side of the Royal Ballroom. Five Ebonguards barred his path, black oval shields and heavy axes held at the ready.

  “Make way!” he roared as he thundered toward them. “The Prince’s life is in danger!”

  The Ebonguards hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. And they were right to, given the strangeness of Aravon’s appearance. Commander Torban had believed them traitors—doubtless Lord Eidan’s doing—and if that information had spread throughout the Ebonguards, Aravon was in for a fight. He tightened his grip on his spear, but before throwing himself into an attack, he reached for the silver pendant that hung around his neck.

  “Look!” Gasping, he slowed to a halt in front of the guards. The race through the Palace had drained his strength. “The Prince’s…insignia!”

  “Captain Seech!” A new voice echoed behind Aravon. Captain Lingram’s, accompanied by the clatter of Legionnaire armor and the thundering of heavy boots clacking on the gleaming marble tiles.